Last night I finished reading Imani all Mine by Connie Porter. While reading it, I could not help to think about girls who I know personally. Girls who are in my family. Girls who attend my church. Girls who I knew in school. Old girl friends from grade school. Mothers of the girls. Who all had babies very young out-of-wedlock.
All of the girls who I thought about were African-American.
Porter wrote the book using a type of vernacular. I call it street vernacular. I think her ability to tell this type of story in this street vernacular is the quality of an author. The main character, Tasha, was talking in a way that reminded me of people I know, who I always correct. Using the past tense incorrectly, made me want to correct some sentences. Nevertheless, it gave me a better understanding of her world in Boston.
There was a time I felt sorry for girls like this (young girls who had babies out of wedlock) or I guess the word would be pity. I would wish that I had, just to give to them. But they do not want anyone’s sympathy or pity. They only want love from that one special person. Their mother or their father. At least that is what they say.
What I want to read now is the same type of book from a male perspective. The male who rape. The male who sleeps around constantly. The male who also wants to be loved. I want to hear his story. It is half his story too.